I used to hear the voice of both my parents. The parents used to tag team, good cop (literally, my father was in law enforcement) and bad cop. My father would keep me tied to him with handouts of money, while my mother would do her best to shove me out of the nest with admonitions along the lines of, “Get a job!” Since 2004 the paternal parental unit is enjoying the great Superbowl game in the sky, so all I have left is my mother to carry on the tradition of reminding me how epic is my failure at life.
I see my mother once every couple weeks and talk to her frequently on the phone. Not a whole lot has changed over the years. The last time I visited, while I stood by my car, one foot in, wondering if I would escape intact, she asked, “How's it going?”
I knew what she was asking. She wanted to know if I was earning any money yet. My mind began to scurry like a rat in a maze, looking for the response that would produce the least amount of psychic trauma. For me and for her.“I'm working on it,” I said tersely.
“Anything happening?” This was not a casual question. It may sound casual to you, but I assure you, it was loaded with layers. You know what I mean. It's the confluence of tone and words that launch you automatically into flight or fight. Should I leap into my car and drive away? Or should I punch her lights out? That makes me laugh. She looks like you could breathe hard and knock her down, but in her younger years she was known as Mighty Mouse, so I don't assume anything. I think I could take her, but...
With one foot in my car, I looked at her and thought to myself, This is where my old parental translation machine would really come in handy.
What is a parental translation machine, you ask? Well, I'll tell you. It won't come as a surprise, once I tell you what it is. I'm sure you have one of your own. The parental translation machine is the mental meat grinder we use to translate what our parents say into what they really mean. Really mean.
Here's a classic example from my late teenhood. My father used to criticize my appearance. I resented that, understandably, and I felt especially hurt because I was enamored with the world of fashion. I used my appearance to express my personality. Which means most of the time I looked like a nut. A fashionable nut. I sewed my own clothes: hot pants, bell bottoms, peplummed jackets with ties in the back that would inevitably fall into the toilet... I thought I was pretty darn cool. My father was not impressed.
“Why don't you wear some nice Ship n Shore slack outfits?” he said. From his point of view it made perfect sense: mix and match separates, perfect for home or office or in my case, college. What's not to love?
Because I had not yet developed my parental translation device, I interpreted his comment as, “You look like an idiot! No one is going to take you seriously when you dress like a fool. Plus you are making me look like a fool! How do you think I feel, standing next to my daughter, who is wearing red corduroy hot pants?”
Of course, because I interpreted his comment as a criticism, my response was to fly off the handle, say something mean, and sulk in my bedroom among my unfinished sewing projects.
But if I had had the parental translation device, I would have realized something very important. I would have realized what my father was really trying to tell me. He was trying to say, “Daughter, I love you. And because I love you, I want you to be safe and secure in this world. I want to protect you from public shame and ridicule. I want to stand next to you and feel proud of what a talented and creative young woman you have become. I say these things because I love you and I want the best for you.”
If I had only had that device sooner.
So now that I am older, wiser, and I have the parental translation device, I know that when my mother asks a loaded question about my capacity to earn, she is really expressing her love and concern for me. She is saying she wants me to be safe. She wants to die knowing that I will be okay, that I won't be struggling to survive.
How did I respond? I usually get mad and stuff it down, and get away from her as fast as I can. This time I said, “Mom, I appreciate that you are worried about me. I am grateful for your love and care. Would you be willing to keep your fear to yourself, if you can, as I am carrying enough fear for the both of us. I can tell you I am doing all that I can, that this process takes time, and I have plenty of money in the bank. I will not starve.”
“I just don't want to see you use up all your savings,” she whined. “You know, when your brother got laid off from his job, when he went back to school, he didn't call us!” Duh, Mom. I'm not surprised, considering what happens when we interact with you. I put her new comment into my parental translation machine, and the message that came out was, “You are so independent. I know you will be okay. But I need to be needed sometimes, remember. I love you for your amazing strength and perseverance.”
Oh, man. I just started bawling. To imagine my mother saying those words was more than I could bear. It won't happen in my lifetime, but I know that is what she would say if she could.
Today I received an official email from my university, stating that my graduation had been processed and I will be receiving my Ph.D. diploma in a few weeks. My transcripts are now updated. I'm officially an alum. It could be I'm weeping over that a little bit, too.
